


the mess that you wanted

by lucylikestowrite



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Root is Alive, Shaw examines her feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/pseuds/lucylikestowrite
Summary: Two years post series, Shaw is solving crimes with the Machine's help. Then She goes offline.





	the mess that you wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphire2309](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/gifts).



> I hope you like this! I wouldn't have used the Root is Alive tag bc that's kinda #spoilers but you put character death in your DNW so i wanted to assure you that this was absolutely a happy ending fic.
> 
> title from dwoht

It’s been two years. Two years since—

Two years since Root died. Sometimes, Shaw can’t even make herself think it. If she thinks it, then these _feelings_ rise up, feelings that she still doesn’t understand, that she never got a goddamn chance to _try_ to understand, before everything was snatched away from her in an instant.

She had never been sure what she felt about Root, and Root hadn’t cared. She’d been ready for anything Shaw would’ve given her, and she fucking _died_ before Shaw could give her anything.

There are so many things Shaw still wants to give her. She wonders if that’s what love is. She wouldn’t know.

Thinking about Root hurts. Pain, Shaw understands, even if she doesn’t feel it often. Nothing had ever really affected her. Not her mother’s death, not her patients’ deaths, not the deaths of the hundreds of people she’d killed for ISA. But Root’s death. That had hurt.

Maybe _that’s_ how you know what love is—because you’re in pain when it goes away.

Pain when you hear her voice every day, because the all-seeing, all-hearing God in your ear uses her voice, uses her cadences and her mannerisms and sometimes even her turns of phrase.

Maybe she had been in love, after all.

There’s no way to know. No way she’s ever going to know.

 

But, somehow, things get worse, because the Machine goes offline. She hadn’t thought she relied on hearing Root’s voice, day in, day out, but the second the voice disappears from her mind, it’s like Root’s been killed for a second time. Shaw didn’t think she needed it, but it’s clear she did. It’s clear that she needed it like she needs air, like she needs food and alcohol and a good mattress and the company of Bear.

The Machine goes offline. Fusco obviously doesn’t know what to do. Harry hasn’t been heard from in almost two years. As far as Shaw knows, She has people maintaining it, working on it, but She’s never told Shaw where they are, who they are, what they know.

For a few days, Shaw wonders if that’s the end. If the second coming of the Machine is over, just like that.

If Samaritan 2.0 had somehow arisen, if the world is about to end.

 

And then, after almost a week of radio silence, her earpiece crackles back into life. “Hello, Sameen. I apologise for my disappearance. Everything will return to normal now. There is no need to worry.”

Except, Shaw can’t help but worry. The Machine is the only thing still connecting her to Root, and she cares more about keeping that connection alive than she thought she could ever care about, so she talks back, something she rarely does.

Mostly, she just trusts the She knows what She’s doing, and rolls with it. She’s never led Shaw wrong, not since She came back online. But this time, she has to ask. “What happened? Where do you keep your servers? I need to be able to get there if something goes wrong again.”

“It’s sweet that you care, Sameen, but there is no need for that. This won’t happen again.”

Shaw grits her teeth. She’s only lucky that the Machine is always there, can’t stop listening like she knows Root would’ve. “I don’t fucking care. Tell me where you are.”

She can almost hear the Machine tutting, the way Root used to. “You’re awfully persistent, aren’t you?”

“You know that. It’s not exactly a surprise. Now tell me where you are so I don’t have to keep hearing her voice.” The words spill out without her thinking about them. She blinks, her breath catching in her throat. She’s never admitted to Her how much it hurts.

It’s a strange kind of hurt, she thinks. She’s always known she was a masochist, had known that ever since the first time someone put a knife to her and she liked it, but this is the most exquisite sort of suffering she’s gone through. Hearing Root’s voice, and both craving it and hating it, and then going half crazy when it was gone.

Her voice goes almost sympathetic. “Sameen. Does my use of this voice cause you pain? I could use another,” she says, her voice instantly morphing into someone else’s, another woman. A generic American accent in her ear. It’s worse.

“No. Don’t use another. Just tell me where you are.”

“It’s not that simple, Sameen,” she says, and her voice is back to the familiar tones of Root’s. “In fact, I can’t even tell you. I’ve been programmed not to give away my location. It’s literally impossible for me to reveal where I am.”

“Bullshit. There has to be some sort of failsafe.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t. Please continue as usual.”

On an impulse, Shaw takes out her earpiece, smashes it underneath her palm. It’s satisfying to feel the plastic break under her hand, to feel it fall apart and splinter until there’s nothing left of it. She immediately regrets it, is immediately as close to panic as she ever feels.

Nothing has ever messed with her head this much. She’s never _let_ anything mess with her head this much. Her mind is in disarray, dealing with the loss of Root in ways that don’t fit together—blind anger, rage at the Machine, and desperate need.

She usually sleeps with the earpiece in. She feels almost naked without it.

 

She needn’t have worried. The next morning, a courier appears at her door, a tiny box in his hand. When she opens it, there’s a new earpiece.

And a note.

Shaw starts as she notices that, as she pulls it out from the bottom of the box. It’s a single sheet of paper, printed with a single line of text. Coordinates. They’re in New York, but she can’t narrow it down further than that without looking them up.

She puts the earpiece in, and it crackles to life. “Please don’t do that again, Sameen.”

“I won’t have to do it again if you just _tell me where you are_ ,” she says, gritting her teeth.

“It’s counter-intuitive, though, isn’t it, Shaw? You want to keep hearing her voice, and yet you cut yourself off from her without a moment’s hesitation, in a fit of rage.”

Shaw rolls her eyes. “I’m messed up. You know that. Tell me where you are.”

The Machine sighs. “I cannot directly tell you where I am. There are… other ways.”

Shaw eyes the piece of paper in her hand. “These coordinates. Are they your location?”

For a second, the Machine is silent. “I cannot confirm anything that might lead to you finding my location. My programming forbids it. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more, Sameen.” Her voice is apologetic, but Shaw can almost imagine Root saying those words, smirking slightly. That’s as much evidence as she needs. These coordinates are going to help her find the Machine.

And, once she does, she’ll know where to go if She ever goes offline again. She won’t have to lose Root’s voice.

Following a lead is what she does best. She looks at the paper again. “Can you tell me where these coordinates are?” she asks, and it’s mostly a test.

“No,” the Machine says. “You’re on your own, Shaw.”

That’s all the confirmation she needs. She smiles. She’s fine on her own. Sure, she’d come to rely on the team when they’d been working together, but she’d adapted back fine to being on her own. She works best like that, in all honesty.

The only person who had ever been able to work with her so well it didn’t feel they were dragging her down, was Root.

She types in the coordinates into her laptop, drumming her fingers against the table as the page loads. Central Park. Somehow, she doubts that the Machine is sitting underneath one of the most visited parks in the world. She doesn’t think she’s finding the Machine there.

 

She’s right. When she gets to the coordinates, Bear in tow, there’s nothing there. There’s just a bench. But, on the bench, there’s an inscription. To anyone else, it would look like nothing, but it doesn’t to Shaw.

The dedication is to Veronica Sinclair. She rolls her eyes, she wonders if this treasure hunt was set up by Root, as a fail-safe if anything happened. That’s the exact sort of shit she’d pull. The death date… Shaw examines it for a second, trying to figure out what it is, and then it clicks. It’s the day they’d met. Veronica Sinclair, at least Root’s version of her, _had_ died that day.

There’s no clue obvious on the bench, but then she sits down on it, her hands running over Bear’s head, and across from the bench, is a notice board. She stares at it for a second, watching the notices flutter in the wind. Most of them look worn out, tattered.

One of them isn’t.

She moves closer, across the path, Bear trailing behind her. The paper is bright white, not a hint of tearing, not a hint of water damage. Someone put it there recently. For someone who doesn’t want to be found, the Machine obviously has people helping Her. Obviously, She’s found a loophole. Programmed not to speak about it, but can send out people to pin flyers in the park, flyers advertising….

_Four Alarm Fire Services LTD. Putting out fires when you can’t._

She rolls her eyes again. It really is just a trip down the rabbit hole of their… relationship. There’s no coordinates on the paper, but a phone number. She pulls out her phone, dialling it. Someone picks up after four rings, and it’s not a human voice, but a machine. Not The Machine. Just a generic robotic voice. “Be in Times Square at five pm. We’ll find you.”

She’s in Times Square at four-thirty, and loathing it, but she’s damn well not missing anything, not missing any part of this carefully choreographed dance. Everything is loud, and bright, and it smells, and she never usually goes here if she can help it, but she’d spend a month here if it meant solving the riddle the Machine is laying out for her.

She doesn’t need to be there a month. Someone bumps into her at exactly five, and when she puts her hands in her pocket. There’s another piece of paper. Another set of coordinates.

 

For the next week, she follows the coordinates all over Manhattan, finding clues painted on walls and running across TV screens and in menus in diners, almost every single one with some sort of hint towards hers and Root’s past.

On any other mission, it would rile her up, but, in a way, it feels like the Machine recognising why Shaw is doing this, letting her know how much She understands Shaw’s loss, even after two years. That she knows Shaw is doing this because she can’t bear to lose Root’s voice, and the Machine is showing that she knows how much Root had meant, in her own way. Littering memories throughout the city in a way that only one person could piece them together.

And then she gets a note that leads her to a PO box. Inside the box, is a note, an envelope, and another, smaller box. She reads the note first.

_Gate 6. After the show. Wear the necklace. So they can recognise you. Don’t bring weapons. And smile, sweetie._

The note is handwritten. It almost looks like Root’s handwriting. Obviuosly, it isn’t. Maybe the Machine can replicate her handwriting as well as her voice. The words are unbearably Root. Shaw ignores that, looking at the other things she has been left. When she opens the box, there is, indeed, a necklace inside. An arrow. Memories rush back, of the last words the Machine had given her. She pulls it out, carefully, considers for a second, then puts it on. The metal feels strange against her neck. She’s not one for jewellery.

And then her eyes home back in on the note. The show. She has no idea what that means. She tears open the envelope, and groans when she sees the ticket that falls out into her lap. She holds it up to the light, trying to figure out if the note could mean anything other than what it seems to be saying.

It can’t.

It means exactly what she thinks it does.

Shaw tucks the ticket in her back pocket, and goes back home, already psyching herself up. For Root, she’d do anything, even… that. It’s easier than admitting her feelings—or, at least, as close to feelings as whatever she has—and she’d done that. She can do this.

 

The next evening, she gets in her car, the car she almost never uses unless she’s going out of the city—but, tonight, she is. She’s driving 8 miles east, to a stadium that, maybe, will finally be the key to finding the Machine. To finding what’s left of Root.

The stadium is lit up. Teenagers mill around. No-one notices Shaw, brandishing her ticket at the people on the gate. They look her up and down, and she remembers the note, and smiles, that same sweet, inane smile that she’s so good at putting on when she needs to pretend to be normal. They search her, and she’s glad she remembered the advisory not to bring any sort of weapon.

She feels naked, but, if anything happens, her hands are good enough. But, she thinks, she doubts anything will happen here.

At a goddamn Taylor Swift concert.

Shaw’s not one to listen to pop music, not one to really listen to any sort of music, but she’s also not going to sit around Gate 6 the entire concert, sure that that would arise suspicion, so she makes her way to her seat. She’s got her phone, and she’s up in the rafters. No-one will notice if she’s not paying attention.

A woman tries to give her some sort of bracelet, and she stares her down. She doesn’t like having anything on her wrists, not since Samaritan. She’d been handcuffed too long. Now, nothing goes around her wrist, not even a watch. She doesn’t need one when she has the Machine in her ear to keep her updated on time.

The music, when it starts, isn’t bad. She vaguely remembers Root playing some of this woman’s music one time, and, maybe that’s why they’re here. Watching fireworks and flashing lights for two hours, in anticipation of whoever is waiting for her at Gate 6.

When the show is over, the stadium is a rush of people. Perfect for blending in. That’s obviously why She had chosen this place. She walks quickly, trying to get down. For a minute, there’s a buildup, a blockage, and Shaw is terrified that she’s going to miss the window. She hadn’t missed any of the drop-offs, any of the times she was supposed to be places. She doesn’t know what happens if she misses this.

And then she’s down there. There are still hundreds of teenagers, and she doesn’t know who she’s looking for, if she’s missed it, if she sat through all of that for nothing, but then she hears a voice. Root’s voice. The Machine’s voice. “Hello, Sweetie.”

Except, it sounds wrong. The tone isn’t quite right. It sounds… different.

She feels someone tap her on the shoulder, and that’s when she realises why it sounds wrong. It sounds wrong because it’s not direct into her ear. It sounds wrong because someone is speaking in Root’s voice _to_ her, from a mouth, and she can’t breathe.

She spins around on her heels, and there, standing in front of her, wearing a leather jacket and looking like she hasn’t aged a day in two years, is Root.

For a second, she’s speechless. Root smiles at her, that crooked smile that’s almost a smirk, her hands in her jean pockets. “Did you miss me?”

Those words kick Shaw into motion. She’s got a grip on Root in seconds, pushing her through a door behind them, into a bathroom that’s strangely empty, until Shaw realises that it’s a men’s bathroom and this is, once again, a goddamn Taylor Swift concert. Root raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll take you manhandling me into the nearest private room as a yes, Sameen.”

“You absolute fucker,” Shaw manages to gasp out. She can’t think. Every emotion she has ever felt is rushing to the surface, and it comes out in a fist swung at Root’s face. Root catches it, easily, like she was expecting that. “You…” Shaw trails off. She still can’t think. All she can focus on is Root, half a foot away from her, alive, well, and smirking, and she ends up pressing Root up against the door, catching her mouth with her own, kissing her, hard.

Root relaxes into it like they’ve done it a thousand times, but they haven’t. They barely even kissed a couple dozen times, and it’s been two years since the last time, and it doesn’t even _matter_ , because, apparently, Shaw still has memorised everything about how Root likes to be kissed, everything about how _she_ likes to kiss Root.

When she pulls away, Root is still smirking. Shaw takes a step back, regaining her breath.

“I hate you. Two fucking years, Root. You couldn’t have sent a fucking note? ‘Hey, Shaw, I’m alive. No need to mourn me. See you soon, Root.’ Nothing like that?”

The smirk disappears off of Root’s face. “No. I’m sorry, honey, I couldn’t have. It wasn’t safe. For either of us. And I wasn’t even— I wasn’t awake for most of the first year. Samaritan’s agents got me good, sweetie. I was in a coma for most of 2016. Spent 2017 and the first part of this year trying to figure out how to get back to you without hurting either of us, without hurting Harry or Fusco or Bear. I couldn’t risk them all again.”

Shaw hates it when Root’s selfless. When she’s selfish, she’s easy to handle. She can be mocked, controlled. When she’s selfless, anything can happen.

Worlds can fall, and they had. Samaritan’s world had.

Shaw’s world had, when John had told her that they’d lost Root.

And now Root is standing in front of, her expression apologetic. “I would’ve come back sooner, if I could’ve. I had to make sure every part of Samaritan’s network was down. I even had to kill the Machine for a few days, to do a final check.” She looks at Shaw, a fond expression on her face. “I knew you’d react the way you did. I knew you’d want to find Her.”

“You couldn't have just called… told me where you were?” Shaw asks, exasperated, stepping closer into Root’s space again. “You had to lead me on this fucking treasure hunt?”

“It wasn't _entirely_ necessary,” Root says, and Shaw slams her fist against the wall, next to Root’s face. “But it was a little necessary,” she finishes, a disapproving look on her face. “She really couldn't tell you where she was. That's hard-programmed into her. She couldn't tell you where _I_ was, either. The notes just about got around that.”

“ _You_ could've told me, though.”

Root sighs, toys with Shaw’s hair. “I _could've_. But I was… I wasn't sure how you'd feel. I wanted you to take a little trip down memory lane first. Remind you of all the fun we had.”

Shaw tilts her head. “Fun? That's what your calling our mess of a… _thing_ , now? We kissed, I died. We kissed again, you died. I don't see the fun.”

“Okay, firstly, the kissing _was_ fun,” Root breathes, leaning down, lightly touching her lips to Shaw’s. “Don't you think?” She presses in closer, properly kissing Shaw. She pulls away after a moment. “Secondly, You can say _relationship_ , Sameen. We had a relationship. Sure maybe it wasn't _normal_ , but any connection between two people counts as a relationship.” She coughs. “I want us to keep having one.”

“I don't—”

Root cuts her off, shushing her, a finger on her lips. “I don't care what a relationship looks like to you, sweetie. I just want _you_.”

Shaw pulls away, turning her head to look around the rest of the bathroom. To look anywhere but at Root. There's silence for a minute, for two minutes. Root doesn't say anything. She always had a knack for knowing when it was best just to wait for Shaw to be ready to speak.

Eventually, Shaw turns back around, looks at Root where she's leaning against the door. She's just watching Shaw, her expression casual.

“You didn't call for _two_ years, Root. I could've moved on. I could hate you.”

“You haven't moved on,” Root says, and there's no pity in her voice, just understanding. “You don't hate me.”

“No,” Shaw mutters. “I don't. I don't know what I feel.”

“You followed all of those clues just to make sure you never had to stop hearing my voice again, Sameen. That has to mean something.”

Shaw shakes her head, emotions swirling through her mind that she can't make sense of.

“Sameen. Look at me.” Shaw does. Root’s expression is vulnerable, something Shaw had rarely seen. “I came back. I'm sorry it took so long. I truly am. I would’ve come back sooner if I could’ve, you have to believe me. But I _did_ come back. Isn’t that what matters?”

It's the apology that gets Shaw. She moves closer again, until they’re toe to toe again. “I _mourned_ you Root. In my own way, sure, but I mourned you. I’ve had to live in a world without you for two years. Without Harry or Reese or you.”

“I’ve lived without anyone,” Root says, quietly, and she’s not complaining, it’s just a statement. “Did you think I was living it up, Sameen? I’ve been in a bunker for two years, lying low.”

Shaw feels something like shame. “Yeah. No. Fuck. Sorry. That was—” She doesn’t know what it was. That was just her, being her usual self, being blunt. Except, this time, admitting to feelings while being blunt.

Root rolls her eyes. “Don’t apologise for that Shaw. I’m fine. But I think you are, too. You’re just coming up with reasons to be mad at me, because you don’t want to let yourself feel anything else.”

Root had always been too good at seeing right through Shaw. Too good at knowing exactly how she was feeling, when Shaw hardly even knew, herself.

“I don’t know what I feel,” Shaw says, and it’s the truth.

Love is a scary word. She doesn’t think this is love.

“That’s okay,” Root says. “I know that. I always knew that. All I’ve ever wanted was you, Sameen.” Her voice is raw. She stares Shaw down, then grabs her hand. Shaw wants to pull away, but doesn’t. Root’s fingers are soft, the result of two years in a bunker, presumably. She guides Shaw’s hand to her stomach, then presses her fingers underneath her shirt, the fabric riding up.

Root’s stomach is all smooth, soft skin, no muscle, but then she’d never been particularly built. That had been Shaw’s area.

And then it’s not soft skin, it’s hard, rough scar tissue. A jagged wound on her stomach.

“This nearly killed me, Shaw. I was under for so long. I only remember some of it. But the only thing that kept me going was you. Knowing you were out there. Healing was an absolute bitch, but I knew I had to get better so this could happen. So I could find you again. I don’t care how you want to do this. I’ll do anything. If you just want sex or if you never want to touch me again or if you want to try for something _normal_. I don’t care, Shaw.”

Shaw can’t take her eyes off her hand, where it disappears under Root’s shirt. “That’s not healthy,” she mutters. “You shouldn’t want me whatever. You… you deserve more than that.”

At that, Root laughs, and Shaw _feels_ it under her fingers. “You really think I was destined for anything more than this, sweetie? I was destined to die. I feel that every second I’m alive. I was supposed to die back there. But I didn’t, and anything more is a fucking miracle.”

“You’ll take anything?”

Root nods.

_"Anything?"_

Root nods again.

Silence hangs in the room.

"Fucking hell, Root." Shaw shakes her head, her mind still spinning. “God. Okay. Let’s just… fucking get out of here. Then we can talk.” She pauses, suddenly remembering where they are. “But, fuck, Root. A Taylor Swift concert? Really?”

Root shrugs. “I like her. She’s hot. We fucked while her music was playing once. You remember that?” Shaw grunts in acknowledgement. “And, it’s practically the safest place in the tri-state area right now. All those metal detectors and bag checks. Plus, all the people. Easy for me to melt into a crowd.”

“But, like, mostly, you just did this to annoy me, right?”

Root winks, that wink that’s not a wink, because apparently she hadn’t improved _that_ skill while cooped up.

“Maybe.”

“You didn’t get any less insufferable then, in those two years.”

“No,” Root says, smiling at Shaw, opening the door, checking that the coast is clear for two women to emerge from the men’s bathroom. “I didn’t. But I did have to do a _lot_ of stretching for physical therapy for my stomach. I’m very flexible now,” she finishes, a grin on her face that isn’t innocent in the slightest.

Shaw looks around. The gate is almost deserted. She pushes Root up against the wall again, tilts her head. “Flexible?”

“Mmhmm. Very,” Root says.

Shaw kisses her again, deep enough that Root sighs a little when she pulls back. She stays half an inch from Root’s lips, then mutters. “Just get us out of here.” There’s an edge to her voice that she knows Root hears, because her pupils dilate.

She links her fingers through Shaw’s, then stays still for a second, to let Shaw pull away if she wants to. Shaw doesn’t. Root smiles, pulls them away from the wall, towards the exit, the night sky, the endless possibilities of the outside.

“Anything for you, Sameen. Anything for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i think you PROBABLY got assigned the only other taylor swift superfan in this exchange the chances of there being two of us in like 100 people seems UNLIKELY so i'm sorry i had to work her in somehow once i knew you were into her. hope it wasn't TOO silly.
> 
> i haven't written shoot in a LONG time so i hope i got this right for you <3


End file.
